The Stones of Home: What Cost Freedom?

‘The Stones of Home’, copyright 2014 by Rowan Utting.

All rights reserved. The moral rights of the author are asserted.

‘The Stones of Home’ is from a phrase used in Markus Zusak’s book,

‘I Am The Messenger’ and is used with his kind permission.

The illustration immediately preceding Chapter 1 is by Natálie Lazengová of the Czech Republic. All other illustrations are by Rowan Utting from his sketchbooks preceding the completion of the draft manuscript or derived from them.

978-0-9941148-0-8 Limited signed first edition

978-0-9941148-1-5 Trade paperback 140x216mm

978-0-9941148-2-2 Casebound 140x216mm

978-0-9941148-3-9 Large print TP

978-0-9941148-4-6 E-Pub

A CIP is available from the National Library of New Zealand.

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thestonesofhome.com

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Rowan Utting:

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Youtube channel: www.youtube.com/user/Cragillahan

Narcun parovanai lua malte parzin del düvelgar bae mi miévh.

Published by Lambton Publishing, a division of Lambton Trading Ltd. 24 Raroa Terrace, Wellington, New Zealand. 5028

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Contents

‘The Stones of Home’, copyright 2014 by Rowan Utting.

Characters and places in alphabetical order.

Prologue

1. A Visit from the Past

2. Old Stories Retold

3. Planning and Preparation

4. First Encounters

5. Tragic Loss, Magic Fire

6. Rematch and Revenge

7. Named and Tamed

8. Diversity and Deception

9. Twio’s Hut

10. Dreams and Dragons

11. Allies and Ambushes

12. Dirflainn

13. Heirlooms

14. Underground Skirmishes

15. Politics

16. The Howl

17. Hatchings and Histories

18. Food and the Brood

19. Slaughter

20. An Oak in the Ocean

21. A Plea for Help

22. Hidden Talents

23. The Calm Before the Storm

24. The Soldiers of Haven

25. A Twisted Mind

26. Gwmyarg

27. Armament and Reunion

28. My Enemy’s Enemy

29. Rejuvenation

30. Combat At Last

31. Desperation in the Final Hour

Epilogue

Elvish and Other Languages Used

Alamard Pronunciation & Grammar

Alamard Poem

Alamard / English Basic Lexicon

English / Alamard Basic Lexicon

Song - Dragon Call

Song - Harhounn’s Naming

Song - Dragon’s Funeral

Song - The Island

Characters and places in alphabetical order.

Áed Galchobar / Pheh-Tzil First Mage

Aegradin Thalota Mage of Secrecy

Ailimessa Sambrinne Mage of Transformation

Andeitlan Leigheass Mage of Pain, Reversed Mage of Healing

Aonneas Previous Mage of Solitude

Atojili Jurlassin Mage of Energy

Beathur Virinyf Mage of Life

Belhiga Uiscalann Mage of Ocean

Bolhovangr Daltyriae Mage of Solitude

Bullda Adult male dragon

Caltann Elf scout and warrior; son of Halentul

Ceannaire Tearmann Mage of Fire and leader of Haven; usurped by his apprentice.

Connor Bjornsson Narimalan fisherman

Cragillahan Arylto Mage of Stone

Daltyr Druid

Danfai Arylto Previous Mage of Stone, father of Cragillahan.

Danzill Elf, chief of Duinn.

Drozak Werewolf scout

Dryadaera Previous Mage of Trees

Dréoch Lachen Previous Mage of Dragons

Etteria Arbanarraswn Reversed Mage of Ocean; Causer of the Great Flood.

Fingal Giant

Fotar Werewolf scout

Fraganni Elf, chief of Guravai

Futhuulkor Tinnryf Apprentice Mage of Fire

Galhaea Ipus’ favourite dragon

Gelarth Arylto Previous Mage of Stone; Danfai’s twin

Grafa Werewolf, previous chief, father of Nalgar

Gyirocan Apprentice Mage of Blessing

Hakurir Werewolf scout

Halentul Elf, chief of Caihi

Ipus Lachen Mage of Dragons

Jarhild Aroulssen Mage of Metal

Karantié Alatir Elf, bride of Pheh-Tzil

Kerhai Altfar Elf, chief of Dürfilennalai

Kinanha Tigerwolf

Kyanna Alatir Elf, wife of Kerhai, mother of Karantié

Larrock Dréoch’s favourite dragon

Lone Stone tigerwolf

Lotar Werewolf, Fotar’s brother

Massira Vuthalanne Mage of Blessing

Melzann Elf, Goblin-Human go-between

Muirtevonn Portadiam Mage of Mind-Control

Nalgar Werewolf Alpha/Chief; remembered as Sun-Summoner.

Narit Ocurti Mage of Sight

Narlugar Son of Nalgar

Pheh-Tzil / Áed Galchobar First Mage

Rittaun Werewolf, mate of Fotar

Rorgnar Willussen Mage of Trees

Suahikaien Melquivae Mage of Trickery

Taliesin Dragon ancestor

Tara Young Narimalan Ipus

Thalsoninsolan Sebanarraswn Reversed Mage of Stone, Sinker of Atlantis.

Tsigaltau Selvhinn-garthull Mage of Flight

Twioglefr Bjornsson Apprentice Mage of Healing

Vennkarl Elf, warrior, adviser and friend of Halentul.

Dragon offspring of Galhaea and Bullda

Arnahel, Harhounn, Sparhilde, Skunak, Var, Vel

Pups of Rittaun and Fotar

Arga, Yalavé, Emmann, Hwala,Gvengar

Places

Caihi, Duinn, Guravai, Gwmyarg, Hiarvhan, Veran-Duratir

Prologue

Around 150 Years Ago

A frantic knocking awoke Massira Vuthalanne, the Mage of Blessing of the Irish Haven. Half-asleep, she cast her mind out, seeking whoever it was that had roused her. She saw the intensity and the fear in the mind before anything else; the shock of such powerful emotions jolted her to complete awareness. She hastily dressed, threw on her dark red cloak, then opened the door. The town seemed to be burning, and her apprentice was standing there, wild-eyed with panic.

What’s happening, Gyirocan? she asked the lanky young man.

H-Haven... it’s under attack! he stuttered.

Immediately, Massira cast her mind again, but this time to the hill at the centre of Navan. There was fear and pain, anger and hatred, all so strong that she gasped in horror.

We must leave. Now. She noticed a sword in his trembling fingers, and reached into a cupboard to fetch her own shortsword, ‘Varigash’, the name of which meant ‘until the end’. Although she was a pacifist, she knew how to wield a blade, and kept this as a last resort.

Together, they ran across the bridge, and to her dismay a massive plume of smoke billowed into the sky. To someone that didn’t know about the Havens, and this one in particular, this wouldn’t’ve been so bad—but to Massira, it was as plain as writing in the sky. Ceannaire Tearmann, Mage of Fire and Leader of the Irish Haven, surely must be dead. Otherwise, he would have tamed this blaze. She saw her own apprentice stumbling behind her, and thought about Ceannaire’s apprentice. He would be dead, too, but this didn’t upset her too much; there was something wrong with him. Ceann had taken pity on him because of a vicious wound down his face, but even so, Massira had never trusted him. She hurried on when Gyirocan had caught up.

Outlined against the sky, Massira saw a dragon, and her heart leapt. Ipus Lachen must be here; she and Massira were both musicians. Singers. They used their voice to carry their magic. She finally reached the fighting, and there was Grafa, the Werewolf Chief, towering over and fighting with a dozen people—­a dozen vampires, Massira corrected herself, as she noticed the almost-uniform blonde hair. They all had vicious sabres, and a couple of them had shiny new cartridge-firing revolvers.

All this new technology surely bodes no good for Haven, thought Massira, as she half-cast her mind to try and find other Mages. She found Atojili Jurlassin, Mage of Energy, fighting— no, it can’t be! The traitorous wretch! Ceannaire’s apprentice, Futhuulkor Tinnryf, had picked up his master’s staff, and was battling the Mage of Energy, who was worn out and struggling to survive. Her cloak was being scorched, and her magic was unfocused; Futhuulkor used Ceannaire’s staff to block every swipe of her long Japanese sword, and then Massira saw the most horrible thing: he pinned her against the wall with the end of it, and shouted in Elvish: Myargu, ach-mal dir! Massira, knowing this meant ‘Fire, kill her!’ turned her head at the last second, tears streaming down her face. She would have fared better to watch it happen, though, because she saw a shape on the floor. A shape that had a knife protruding from its chest. A knife which transfixed a long, grey, and now bloodstained beard. Only one man in Haven had a beard like that, and when she saw the firelight reflecting off the shine of his bald head, she knew for certain: Futhuulkor had killed Ceannaire Tearmann. The leader of Haven, Mage of Fire, and to whom Futhuulkor had been apprenticed.

Massira ran into a building, mind reeling with shock, and saw two more Mages—Andeitlan Leigheass, the Mage of Healing, and Beathur Virinyf, the Mage of Life. Both were bearded and rather old, the latter more so, and she was about to call out to them when she heard Andeitlan laughing. It was an evil sound, that wormed its way into her brain and filled her with fear, freezing her like a rabbit. As the Mage of Healing laughed, Beathur fell to the ground, writhing. Massira tentatively cast her mind out, to sense Andeitlan’s magic, and to her horror his mind appeared as an enormous chaotic mass of red sparks. His magic had been Reversed! She fled outside, fearing that she couldn’t trust anyone.

She crouched down behind a bush, and once more, Massira cast her mind in search of other Mages—but this time it was to avoid them. Narit Ocurti, the Mage of Sight, was nearby, and too late, she sensed Narit’s mind roaming too. She returned to her head, just soon enough to see Narit running towards her. Massira raised her sword, ready to fight, but the Mage of Sight directed Massira’s gaze to her sheathed cutlass with a worried gesture, indicating that she intended no harm. The Mage of Blessing half-lowered her sword, but still keeping it at the ready because she feared that it was a trap.

What’s going on, Mas? whispered the Mage of Sight frantically, crouching down beside her.

I have no idea! Gyirocan woke me up, and we ran over here, and... Massira gasped in horror.

Rit, have you seen him? she pleaded with her fellow Mage.

I’m so sorry... Narit pointed towards the main building of Haven, at the top of the hill. Pinned to the wooden beam was Massira’s apprentice, slumped lifelessly around the blade that kept him standing. His own sword was still in his hand, the point of it resting on the ground. The Mage of Blessing sobbed into Narit’s shoulder, crying for the passing of the young man who had been like a son. The Mage of Sight let her cry for a while, but sensing the impending danger urged Massira to her feet.

We need to get out of here; we can mourn later, she said, and the two Mages sprinted towards the forest, in an attempt to seek refuge with the elves.

An enormous explosion shook the night sky, and Narit turned back to look. The main building of Haven was now rubble and a cloud of smoke, but because she was still running, the Mage of Sight tripped into a ditch, spraining her ankle. She yelled in pain, and Massira immediately went about attempting to heal it. She knelt down, murmuring words of power over the twisted foot, and more explosions happened behind them.

Look out! yelled Narit, seeing burning chunks of stone crashing to the ground around them.

The Mage of Blessing looked up, but it was too late. Before either of them could move, an enormous flaming twisted chunk of metal silenced them forever.

Grafa lifted his muzzle to the sky, and howled. Death was everywhere, and he was badly wounded. His howl said to his pack that they must retreat, that this was no longer a safe place. His mate was hiding in a small cave which his family often used when visiting Haven, and he howled for her as another explosion shook the earth. The entrance to the cave had fallen in, and although his mate had made it out, only one pup survived. She bundled him up in her arms, and they ran. More of their pack joined in as they ran, until five dozen werewolves, most of them injured, were fleeing from the burning Haven towards the forest.

A young elf, having barely reached adulthood, sat in a tree, his eyes alert. He was only forty-nine years old, and tonight was his first lookout duty, as his father had decided he was ready. The buildings of Hiarvhan were burning, and being destroyed, and he was not the only elf in the trees. His eyes were the sharpest, though, and it was him that first spotted the pack of werewolves sprinting towards the trees. In his mind, it was all so clear: the werewolves had destroyed Hiarvhan, and were now coming to slaughter the elves, for no greater reason than that the dog-warriors disliked them.

Del buruntsakai lu nalgar! he called down to the warriors beneath, and the message spread like wildfire: the werewolves are attacking! The Alhai, or elvish warriors, readied their weapons, and as the werewolves reached the trees, the young elf launched the first dart, hitting the largest ugliest werewolf squarely in the chest.

Caltann, ban cal! shouted the leader of the Alhai, congratulating him, saying Caltann, great throw!

The surviving werewolves whimpered and fled through the scrub, some of them blindly running into the hidden line of elves, flailing around them with their large claws, driven by fear and terror. The larger werewolves realised that it was an ambush, and sought revenge for their fallen pack-mates.

The sun rose to a smoking bloodstained battlefield. The buildings of Haven had been obliterated, and corpses lay scattered all around. The streets were piled with dead vampires and werewolves, as well as the occasional human, and large piles of charred debris. Groups of vampires were looting everything in sight, and a few had made it into the lower part of Haven, which housed many magical artefacts. At the edge of the forest, scores of werewolves lay dead or dying, and a few dozen elves in a similar state had been carried back to their main camp.

A small group of werewolves had survived the onslaught, and escaped through the forest to a large underground cave system. They were perhaps a quarter of the werewolves that had been in Haven, and less than half that had fled. Patrols of elves now roamed the edge of the forest, attacking any werewolves that they saw, so the survivors started to live underground.

Futhuulkor Tinnryf had destroyed the Irish Haven, and started war between the werewolves and elves, but this was not enough. He realised that he should have timed the attack a little later, so that all the Mages would have been present, but it did not worry him. From the wreckage of Haven, he pulled a malignant dagger which was one half of an ultimately powerful weapon. He bestowed this—­ a gift and a curse—­upon the Mage of Mind-Control and instructed him to craft a spell of epic proportions, one which would cripple the magical ability of all Mages and magical beings worldwide. Using the magic of all those killed in the Fall of Haven, the Mage of Mind-Control cursed the world; an act which heralded the Winter of Magic. So powerful was this spell that it would last for over a century, separating Mages from not only their magic but their memories also.

Whilst his most powerful ally slept, Futhuulkor travelled the world, seeking out the bewildered Mages and killing them.

A few years later, the Mage of Mind-Control awoke. Driven insane by the knife, he made it his mission to reunite it with its other half, an idea placed in his head by the blade itself. Mad with power and driven by ambition, he vowed to himself that he would not stop until he controlled the world.

1. A Visit from the Past

Up in the Scottish Highlands, amongst the craggy tors, animals eked out a living on the sparse vegetation. In such a deserted place, they were safe, but it was wise to be constantly alert nevertheless. A deer lowered its head to graze on the heather, looking around warily. Besides the trickle of the river, there wasn’t much to be heard. Its ear twitched as it heard the crunch of gravel. There wasn’t anything up here that could easily injure it, but it paid to be cautious. It was a solitary buck, away from the herd of does that it had guarded earlier in the year. Suddenly, a shot ricocheted around the valley, and the successful hunter forded the river and claimed his kill. Up here on the peaks, a single deer could feed a man for the best part of winter at a pinch.

The valley, carved out along the side of a larger peak of the chain, was sparsely populated with tussocks. Near the top of the peak, on the side protected from the wind, was a small wooden hut. The door was covered with subtle but intricate carvings, which had been mostly eroded by the unrelenting weather. Grey from wind and time, the planks of the hut sealed a tranquil chamber of air away from the harsh wind and snow.

Currently, that air was full of smoke; the tall, grey-haired hunter had dragged the deer carcass up to the hut, skinned it, gutted it, and was smoking the majority of it over a small fire. The organs were in a pot, bubbling into stew. The small hut was only two rooms; this one contained dried meat hanging from the ceiling, and small wooden ornaments on shelves all around the walls. The door to the other room was only half-open, but a bookshelf with tomes and rolls of ancient-looking parchments was visible.

Nice place you’ve got here, said a Welsh accent from the corner of the hut.

What? Who said that? Show yourself! growled the old hunter in his